your own, Alie.

of

You must not let even part of this be true

you, dear it was all true once of me.

6.66

My people hath been lost sheep-they have turned them away on the mountains: they have gone from mountain to hill, they have forgotten their resting-place."'

As if a cloud had rolled away from before her eyes, so did Rosalie look up at him,—a child's very look, of quietness and peace.

'I will not forget it,' she said. ""For thus saith the Lord, the Holy One of Israel: In returning and rest shall ye be saved; in quietness and confidence shall be your strength. And the work of righteousness shall be peace ; and the effect of righteousness, quietness, and assurance for ever. And my people shall dwell in a peaceable habitation, and in sure dwellings, and in quiet resting-places."'

The words were spoken clearly and strongly, though rather as if thinking than speaking; but as she rose then to go up stairs the colour faded swiftly from her cheeks, and laying her hand on Thornton with a confused look, sense and strength failed together.

Thornton carried her up stairs and laid her on the bed, and toil-hardened hands tried their gentlest powers about her; but when at length paleness and unconsciousness yielded to their efforts, it was to give place in turn to a brilliant colour and a fevered sleep.

In silence Thornton sat by her through the night,— remembering with intense bitterness the years of her society that he had shunned, and feeling that whatever might be the effect of this sickness he could not say a word. The women went softly about the room, attending to the fire and bathing the poor sleeper's forehead and hands; but whatever words they spoke were scarce whispered out, and Rosalie's quick breathings fell on her brother's ear without interrup

THE COLD DAYLIGHT.

327

tion. How he wished her away from there, with her own physician, in her own home-with other friends within reach. Such skill as could be found in the neighbourhood was called in, and pronounced her disease to be a slow fevers more tedious than dangerous unless it should take some special type, but requiring constant care and watchfulness. And until the day came streaming in through the windows, Thornton hardly removed his eyes from her face.

How cold the daylight looked! how cheerless; and yet the sun shone brilliantly clear, and the tufts of autumn leaves with which the trees were spotted shewed their gayest tints; and the birds sang and twittered their merriest. But the contrast was lost upon Thornton, for his eye and ear took little note of anything but Rosalie; and the morning came on, and the women went softly in and out, and he scarce noticed them nor heard their low consultation.

At length Mrs. Hopper came up to him.

'Mr. Clyde,' she said, 'the very best thing you can do is to go where you can be o' some use. You can't do her the least bit o' good stayin' here, and that poor little soul down stairs 'll cry her eyes out afore long, if there don't some one speak to her.'

Thornton sprang up instantly and left the room, remembering that Rosalie would never have forgotten anybody as he had forgotten Hulda: even in her deepest sorrow.

'How far, how very far she is on the way which I am but beginning to tread,' he thought as he went down stairs.

Hulda was in the sitting-room, crouched down on the floor in one corner, pouring out a flood of sorrow that was exhausted only in its tone,-there was no stay to the tears. And when Thornton raised her up in his arms and tried all his powers of soothing and caressing, the child shook all over in the violence of her grief.

'They won't let me see her!' she cried.

They won't

let me even go into the room!

And I wouldn't make the

least noise and oh I know she would let me !'

'Do you think you could keep perfectly quiet?' Thornton said, putting his face down by hers.

"O yes! O yes!'

'Then I will take you up there; but first you must wait a little, for Rosalie would be troubled to see all these tears. I am going to write to Marion to ask her to come here, and you shall sit quiet on my lap till that is done.'

"Do you think she will come!' Hulda said, as she watched the rapid tracing of his pen, and tried the while to seal up her tears.

'I am sure that she will.'

And almost tired out, Hulda lay drooping on his neck until more than one letter was written and folded, and he was ready to take her up stairs.

She kept her promise of quietness,-shed no tears unless silent ones, and sat on Thornton's lap or stood by his side in perfect stillness, as long as he would let her. And when he knew that she ought to be out in the fresh air, and told her so, and begged her to go with Martha,-Hulda's mute distress was so great, that there was no help for it, he must take her himself.

It was a lesson for him, all this, he began to try his hand at self-denial, and to learn the lesson which Rosalie had so long practised. True his watching eyes could do her no good-both days and nights were passed in the restlessness or the sleep of fever, and often she seemed hardly to know him. But for himself, what comfort anything on earth could give he found at her side. And now he must devote himself to another's comfort-must walk with Hulda and talk to her and bear with her, and keep her as much as possible out of the sick room. He could not in conscience let her be in it, and to send her out with Martha plunged

Hulda into the very depths of grief. Sitting on her brother's lap with her arm round his neck, and probing his distress with her earnest questions,-walking with him— hearing him read, and never failing to bring up Rosalie's name at every turn, she was comparatively cheerful. It was something new for him-something against his whole nature and experience. And nature rebelled. But as if they had been stamped on his mind, checking every impatient thought and word, bidding even sorrow and weariness give place and bide their time, these words were ever before him—

"For even Christ pleased not himself," and "If ye love me, keep my commandments."

If Hulda mourned her sister's illness, it was not because her brother ceased trying to fill her place.

CHAPTER XXXV.

It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.-As You Like It.

HENRY RAYNOR,' said the quakeress to her son, one day when he had come over from Long Island to dine with her; ' isn't thee wellnigh tired of thy present way of life?'

It is not the pleasantest way that I could imagine, mother.'

'Then why does thee pursue it?'

It seemeth right unto me,' said Mr. Raynor, assuming as he often did the quaker diction.

6

And thee is resolved to follow, even to the end, these unhallowed proceedings?'

'Nay mother, call them not so. The English have not shewn themselves so tender of other places which they have taken, that we need wish our own city to fall into their hands.'

"The Lord will fight for and
you,

peace," said the quakeress.

Mr. Raynor smiled a little.

ye

shall hold your

'What do you think of this mother?-the very first words of Deborah's song.

"Praise ye the Lord for the avenging of Israel, when the people willingly offered themselves."

His mother shook her head at him, but answered the smile, nevertheless.

'Thee must hold thine own notions, but thee need never